Addiction
by Lexiconic
Summary: Sherlock Holmes, the most prolific serial killer since Jack the Ripper, has an addiction. His elder brother. Originally 'Decent into Chaos'. Updated, edited and extended. Written with my partner - Ourworstnightmare. Dub-con Holmescest.
1. Chapter 1

This story was originally written for a kink meme prompt, but my partner ( u/3756521/Our-Worst-Nightmare) and I decided to extend it. There will be more chapters to follow as we further explore the relationship. Warnings for dub-con, bondage, masturbation and incest.

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"Jim Moriarty?"

A deep, tempting baritone; it teetered on the edge of recognition, making a smile crook the edges of Jim's mouth. "Hmm?" he asked, turning slowly on his heel to face the man behind him.

It took quite an impressive creature to break into the consulting criminal's private home. It was more than a little impressive to know of its existence, and frankly unheard of to find, and break in, without Jim being aware. His hands twitched towards his Glock, resting in his interior left jacket pocket.

Recognition. Jim gave a little, only half-mocking gasp of surprise. "Sherlock Holmes," he breathed, almost reverently, eyes scanning the man's figure. Of all people to turn up in his humble home, at this time of the evening, he was greeted with sight of the most prolific serial killer in history.

Jim knew of Holmes, naturally. They worked in similar circles, but did not necessarily cross over; Jim was a consulting criminal, the puppet master. Sherlock had no job role; he was a serial killer, a hit man, a sadist. Jim alone knew he was connected to the various, more publicised crimes from across the past ten years or so; he left his calling cards, like any good criminal. The police – bumbling idiots – had failed to see the connections. Other worthless men had been convicted for the crimes of Sherlock Holmes. Nobody came close to the man.

Oh, Jim had wanted to meet Sherlock for years. He had hoped – quietly and fervently – that Sherlock would come to him. He had been entirely correct.

Here he was, lounging with mocking casualness in the doorway, watching Jim with a shadowed smile. He could be no older than mid-twenties, perhaps a couple of years younger than Jim himself. He was gorgeous, too. That much Jim knew; he had been tracking Sherlock's movements, even Sherlock himself, for years. He was so very much better in the flesh.

"To what do I owe the honour?" Jim asked smoothly. He didn't move his hand away from his Glock. There was always the rather established chance that this was an assassination; it would be a pity to remove Holmes, but his life would certainly continue.

Sherlock smirked at the flattery, pushing away from the doorframe; Sherlock cut a striking silhouette against the light from the open door, hair curling around his head, his neck. Huge lips, full and pouting, and the most extraordinary eyes, glinting in the half-light.

"I'm here with a request; that's what people do, isn't it?" he asked slowly, stroking a finger along the counter. Jim found himself shivering at the tone of his voice, licking his lips slightly, relaxing slightly around the man who was responsible for god alone knew precisely how many deaths. "Ask you for help."

"Normal people, yes," Jim agreed, taking a step closer to the man, head twisting, serpentine, trying to ascertain what this man could possibly require from him. "But not you. Surely, not you?" he asked, sounding disappointed, irritated even. He was ordinary. Even this man needed to call for help. Not an equal, not a true equal, but yet another boring, _ordinary_ person.

Sherlock gave a hollow chuckle, huge eyes dilated. Drugs, perhaps. Would hardly be surprising; Jim himself was often tempted, often succumbed. Something to take the edges off the overly bright and sharp world, take it stratospheric or tone it out altogether.

"These are not normal circumstances," Sherlock admitted, looking up at Jim through long, black lashes. A master manipulator, how very delightful. "Believe me. I would rather not be here."

"But why? You're Sherlock Holmes," Jim swooned dramatically, reaching a hand out to Sherlock's face, touching the man's cheek before he pulled away in one fluid, elegant motion. Sherlock, by contrast, stayed statuesquely still. "You're brilliant, you are. Proper genius."

"Yes," Sherlock drawled, sounding almost bored by the situation. "Unfortunately something has come up. Even I am unable to handle this. I require some assistance."

Jim had to admit it; he was utterly intrigued. Sherlock's reputation, his influence, stretched almost as far as his own web. "Go on," he breathed, intense.

This time, Sherlock leaned closer to him; Jim raised an eyebrow, hand still carefully hovering over the Glock. Sherlock's lips moved against the shell of the man's ear; hot breath, deep tone, sending thrumming tremors to Jim's groin. Oh, the things he could with this man. To this man.

"Dear Jim. Could you fix it for me to have my big brother all for myself, to use him as I see fit?" he asked, in a playful, childish voice. Jim moaned, almost coming from the request alone.

After all: who didn't know Mycroft Holmes? The Iceman. The central hub of the British Government. A beautiful, terrifying creature, the flipside of Holmesian brilliance; ruthless and terrible, but unlike his little brother, working for good rather than evil. How fairytale. Jim had always been so very fond of fairytales.

The image of the murderous little brother, wanting to fuck his big brother blind. How perfectly, blissfully chaotic a concept. Oh, this was _sublime_. Pure chaos.

"Oh, _ohh_," he murmured, reaching up with a sudden motion, grasping onto Sherlock's collar, thumbing across the soft fabric. "Oh my darling, it would be a _pleasure_," he crooned, looking up into breathtakingly cold blue eyes.

"Of course, I realise normally people offer you something in return…" Sherlock began, only to have Jim press a finger to his cherubic lips. The blue darkened another shade, almost navy in the dim lighting, suspicious, disliking the contact but abiding it nonetheless.

"I am tempted to say I would do this one for free," Jim laughed, feeling Sherlock relax incrementally, the tug of his lips thinning in a smirk. They were so similar to one another. He had never been attempted to ally himself to somebody before this moment, but damn, Sherlock Holmes was something else.

"Oh, I couldn't let you do that," Sherlock assured him, tongue flicking across Jim's fingers, laving at the pads intensely briefly. He had never found somebody who was quite so able to tempt him sexually, to make that throbbing in his brain translate to his groin.

"I've been getting so very bored recently," Sherlock mused, almost to himself, letting out a sigh that made Jim shiver. Jim raised a quizzical eyebrow, playing stupid for a moment. "You seem to have an almost endless client list. If ever you needed a little… dare I say it… help?"

"I'll know who to call," Jim murmured, moving the finger from Sherlock's lips to brush aside one of Sherlock's dark curls. He closed his eyes, letting the caramel breath caress him, not making any secret of his attraction. A pity Sherlock was fixated on the elder Holmes. "I'll have him to you in a week."

"Three days," Sherlock said instantly, stiffening, moving a step away.

"Five."

"Deal. I'll text you the place," Sherlock said, turning to leave. Jim allowed himself a small smile; naturally, Sherlock had Jim's number. He needed to redistribute several contacts who had his direct number, it appeared.

"Oh Shirley, one more thing," Jim called as Sherlock reached the doorframe again, leaning against the counter, his erection bulging in his trousers. He kept his body angled towards Sherlock; might as well cultivate a potential sexual partner, if possible. Sherlock turned, eyebrow raised, eyes flicking briefly to Jim's groin with a shadow of amusement. "I wanna watch."

"I won't have you in the room," Sherlock said flatly.

"No fear babydoll, just send me the footage," Jim shrugged, continuing to flirt unapologetically. Sherlock didn't ask why, perhaps simply didn't care. In any case, he nodded, before vanishing through the doorway and into the London night.

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Comments, reviews, criticism is loved and adored.


	2. Chapter 2

**This story was originally written for a kink meme prompt, but my partner ( u/3756521/Our-Worst-Nightmare) and I decided to extend it. There will be more chapters to follow as we further explore the relationship. Warnings for dub-con, bondage, masturbation and incest.**

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Mycroft Holmes woke up.

The first thing he became aware was the quality of the sheets beneath him. He conventionally insisted on a four hundred or higher thread count, and these felt to be nothing near. By virtue of being able to analyse the sheets in such detail, he understood he was naked. He had worn pyjamas at night since early childhood; being fully undressed was almost unfamiliar sensation.

The dull, slightly bitter aftertaste of sedative lingered in the back of his throat. This was a somewhat less promising development. The sheets, and the softness of the surface, indicated a bed. He was bound to the headboard with cold, steel handcuffs, bringing his arms harshly above his head. His legs were spread uncomfortably wide; he tested the strength, feeling a slight give; handcuffs around the ankles, then looped around the bedposts with rope.

He felt repulsively exposed. He was not wearing underwear, either. The chill in the air across his naked form had been what awakened him; the draft, the air quality, implied underground. The very slight dampness in the air, the dense, musky flavour; undoubtedly a cellar. The above information had been gleaned without needing to open his eyes.

He opened his eyes. Concrete, mould in the corners, minimalistic and artificial light. Nondescript in terms of ascertaining where he was, or the identity of his captors. The bed was iron, very slightly rusted, structurally sound or he would not be attached to it; whomever had made the rather colossal effort of breaking into his house, a veritable fortress by anybody's standards, would not suffer him escaping without difficulty.

Mycroft's personal training had involved various torture techniques, although he had doubted that he would ever have need of them. Whoever had taken him had been well prepared, well-funded, and very intelligent. He had current workings in many countries; the Russians, perhaps Americans, had orchestrated this. In any circumstance, removing himself seemed unlikely, if not impossible.

Naked, strapped to a bed. Implied some very new-age torture, or sexual assault. There would be people looking for him; however, it was likely to be far too late by the time they tracked him down. He may well be dead, in fact. How irritating.

"Have you worked it out yet?" asked a distinctively familiar voice from behind him, mocking him.

Ah.

Mycroft rolled his eyes wearily. "You are aware that you may call, or indeed visit me, without such latent hyperbole?" Mycroft asked, sounding deliciously bored.

"Isn't this far more diverting?" Sherlock spat lividly, stalking into Mycroft's line of sight. Mycroft sighed very slightly; he had missed his younger brother, despite everything he had done over the years, including being tied naked to a bed in a cellar.

"Are you going to kill me, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked lightly, looking at his little brother with a remarkable level of contempt for a man who was naked and strapped down. Mycroft had never liked being nude; he wore well-tailored suits for a reason, mostly concerning his physique. It was difficult to be imposing when nude, in general. Unless one was Irene Adler.

"Sadly not. Don't tempt me though," Sherlock said, quite seriously. It was far from an idle threat; Sherlock had never been able to control his mind, his urges, the way his brother had. It was quite possible that Sherlock would lose control, and kill him.

He had begun with questionably ethical experiments. The drugs had begun shortly after puberty hit. By the age of fourteen, he had committed his first murder. They were becoming more and more extravagant as time went on; Sherlock had been dabbling in torture by twenty-two, and he tortured a man to death on his twenty-third birthday. The body had been sent to Mycroft. He had supposed it was significant.

In any case, Mycroft had been following his progress with marked interest; it was his younger brother, after all. Despite himself, he managed to care for Sherlock. He neglected to point out the errors in policing when they somehow glossed over the obvious evidence that Sherlock had been involved.

He couldn't understand if it was hope, or sheer stupidity, that kept Mycroft praying his brother would remain undiscovered by the police. The two were so very similar, after all.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Mycroft mused, a belated response to Sherlock's threat. He would attempt mild diplomacy, keep Sherlock satisfied for the time being, try to avoid a rather undignified death.

"So, have you?" Sherlock asked, standing directly in front of Mycroft, looking down at him. Mycroft tuned out the whine of his own discomfort in favour of sarcasm.

"Have I what?" Mycroft asked flatly.

"Worked it out," Sherlock repeated, lip twitching angrily. Mycroft looked back at him expressionlessly, trying to read him. His brother required something from him, something he could not simply hack out of one of Mycroft's computers. It could be simple case of revenge – that was Sherlock's style – but why in this fashion? There were far subtler ways of exacting revenge.

"Oh you are so _slow_!" Sherlock cried, infuriated. Mycroft smiled; he enjoyed revelling in the one thing his brother couldn't stand – waiting. He had absolutely no patience. One of Sherlock's few weaknesses; if there was something he wanted he never saw the point of savouring it, enjoying the anticipation. He simply took it. A man of instant gratification.

"Want me to give you a clue?" Sherlock asked; his eyes were alight, bright and ferocious, as he watched Mycroft's mind working. His intellectual equal, perhaps even senior.

"Go on then," Mycroft said slowly, conceding defeat.

"Your twenty-third birthday," Sherlock said, watching, waiting for Mycroft to finally understand. Mycroft took a breath, casting his mind several years, landing on his birthday so many years ago. He had returned home, had a family dinner, he had… Ah.

Sherlock smiled delightfully. Mycroft _remembered_.

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**As always feedback is adored :) **


	3. Chapter 3

_Just a short chapter this time! This chapter stemmed from a fic written by my partner and I a short time ago. She has also used it for inspiration, becoming 'Touch' in her Holmescest serise. ( s/8694615/1/Touch )._

This story was originally written for a kink meme prompt, but my partner (Ourworstnightmare) and I decided to extend it. There will be more chapters to follow as we further explore the relationship. Warnings for dub-con, bondage, masturbation and incest.

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It was the goddamn voice that had done it.

Mycroft had been at university for the better part of the year, barely seeing his brother in the interim; he had left behind an irritating, childish brat. Sherlock's voice had barely broken, for god's sake; over the past year, he had descended to a baritone from a rather rangy tenor. His limbs had been gangly, hair messy. He was spectacularly annoying, in general.

Mycroft had heard Sherlock's voice for the first time when the boy had told him to 'piss off out of the study'. Mycroft had dropped his umbrella – a present from Mummy – and turned quickly to see his baby brother standing in the doorway.

It was like encountering an entirely different person. The electrocuted mop of dark hair had become lustrous, black curls. Those gangly, awkward limbs had grown longer and nimble, and dear lord, the boy had cheekbones that protruded halfway out of his face.

He was somewhat concerned by the inadvertent response; the expanse of pale skin, the gorgeous form, that _voice_. His cock twitched excitably at the thought of him. No, he told himself, he's your _brother_. And barely sixteen.

Oh dear lord though, he was beautiful. Almost ethereal. He could imagine that sarcastic little mouth on him, murmuring obscenities in that lustrous baritone, plump lips skimming over his chest, his stomach, traversing downwards, the _impossible_ image of those lips around his cock…

He bit his lip, gasping slightly, palming himself through his trousers. He needed to consider anything else, other than him. He pictured an attractive lecturer he had seen around Oxford, glasses, light hair, oh _yes_.

Leaning back against the headboard, he reached into his pants, stroking himself with in inelegant whine. Imagining a hot mouth around his cock, sliding up and squeezing and _oh_, he increased his speed, collapsing fully against the bed. He imagined riding the man's mouth, gripping soft dark hair, no, _no_ blond hair, _blond _hair, for god's sake.

Too bloody late now; he was fucking his fist, so close, so absurdly close. He continued to thrust fast and hard, just as he liked it, and oh, Sherlock would like it that way too, he was certain of that. Mycroft repeatedly thrusting into that tight little arse, letting the boy keen with want, closing his fist around Sherlock's length, feeling the muscles constrict as the boy orgasmed hard into Mycroft's hand.

He gasped, eyes widening as he focused on the doorway opposite him.

He wasn't merely imagining Sherlock. As he stared forward, the real thing was leaning on his doorframe, face caught in a lingering expression of ecstasy as he watched his brother. Sherlock's trousers had tightened obviously around his groin, around a pressing erection.

That was it, past the point of no return. Mycroft came in his hand with a yell, spilling across the sheets.

"Out!" he yelled in the same breath, barely able to stand as he pointed wildly at the door. Sherlock looked at him, eyes wide and dark with lustful, wondrous thoughts.

_"Out!"_ Mycroft repeated lividly, tugging at his trousers and making a sudden darting motion towards his younger brother. That was when Sherlock ran.

"I've wanted you so badly," Sherlock whined, looking over his bound and spread elder brother. "For so long," he continued, moving to the bed, straddling Mycroft's hips. Mycroft took a stuttering breath.

"And now? You're all mine".

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Comments, reviews, criticism is loved and adored.


	4. Chapter 4

This was the last chapter in my original fic, however I will hopefully be posting more, so do keep watching!

This story was originally written for a kink meme prompt, but my partner (Ourworstnightmare) and I decided to extend it. There will be more chapters to follow as we further explore the relationship. Warnings for dub-con, bondage, masturbation and incest.

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"Sherlock…" Mycroft began, looking at the man straddling him. He had barely seen his brother in the previous ten years. Sherlock was still beautiful, puberty had done wonders. Those slim, long, slightly muscled legs, now on either side of Mycroft's hips, their groins hovering, inches apart, were enough to make his breath catch in his throat. "This is very, very wrong."

Sherlock laughed; his voice cascaded through that rich, dark chuckle that Mycroft adored. "Still insisting on your social ideas and morals, brother mine?" he mocked softly, stroking a finger down Mycroft's bare chest. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, attempting to remain indifferent.

"Yes Sherlock, my morality and my stance on the situation remains intact," Mycroft said coldly. "You are my brother."

"And yet you desire me," Sherlock commented, quite correctly. He began to grind against Mycroft's bare cock, feeling him begin to harden underneath him. "Don't bother lying to me; it is so very tedious."

"Whatever I may or may not feel for you Sherlock is irrelevant," Mycroft told him plainly, staring directly up at the ceiling, not granting Sherlock the honour of eye contact. He detested his body's responses, the way Sherlock was able to manipulate him. "It is repugnant."

"Oh just _shut up_, will you?!" Sherlock yelled abruptly; he gripped Mycroft's chin, forcing him to look up at his younger brother. "You are so dull! So boring!" he continued, drawing back a hand and slapping Mycroft hard across the face. Mycroft winced, but otherwise made no reaction. His bound arms were beginning to ache, his cheek was flushing a delicately stained red.

"You have wanted me for eight years, and made no move in that time. I made it easy for you too! The clues, the hints, you could have found me in an instant," Sherlock accused; Mycroft shifted, uncomfortable, aware that Sherlock was entirely accurate in his accusations. "You were too scared of your own feelings, too afraid of what you might do if you actually found me".

Sherlock laughed with a hint of melodious insanity, scratching red welts down his brother's chest, making him arc backwards against the mattress in a bid to escape. This was rapidly falling out of his control.

"You let other people, _British citizens_, take responsibility for my crimes," Sherlock mocked, delving into Mycroft's more uncomfortable realities. "I thought I would have to go on a spree before you'd decide you'd have to finally face me."

"Is that what all this is about?" Mycroft asked, face softening a tiny bit, trying to find some hint of a seven year old Sherlock in the adult pinching his nipples cruelly hard. "You wanted my attention."

Sherlock snorted. "A little," he conceded, slowly leaning forward, towards Mycroft's face. "But mainly, brother dear, because it was _fun_."

Mycroft turned away, wrenching his head away from the grip Sherlock still had on his chin. "If you had merely spoken to me. This could have been avoided."

"You would have turned me away, run away," Sherlock interjected, his face suddenly darkening. "Tried to have me committed. Again".

"That was Mummy's idea," Mycroft said quickly. "I never agreed to…"

"Shut up!" Sherlock bellowed. Another slap, so hard Mycroft felt his ears start to ring, blinking away the slight fogginess that invaded his vision. In the low, constant ringing, Sherlock voice: "Have you ever killed anyone brother? I mean you, not some lackey. Killed someone with your own hands?"

"I am pleased to say that has yet to occur," Mycroft retorted.

"It is addictive, better than coke, better than crack," Sherlock mused, plump lips falling sensuously open. "Oh, the most addictive thing I have ever found. Until now," he breathed. He moved his lips down, tasting his brother's chest, the sheen of sweat and bodily musk. Mycroft shivered, shuddering at the rough sensation of a tongue on soft skin.

"Who knows. If this is good enough maybe I'll go off killing, just stick to fucking you instead," he purred. Mycroft shut his eyes, breathing hard. He could be the one to keep Sherlock legal, clean, away from the things that could get him killed or imprisoned.

"You would swap murder for incestuous sex of dubious consent? How very noble of you," Mycroft remarked blankly. He wanted his brother, more than he could say, but not like this. Not kidnapped, his body made to respond against his will. Despite what his afore-mentioned body may want.

"Oh, because they all go against your rules, don't they brother?" Sherlock hissed lividly, angry again. "Against your little world view. So very, very _boring_!" He almost screamed, making the man beneath him flinching slightly. He had a healthy fear of being slapped again.

"Why can't you see sense, like I have?" Sherlock pleaded, lips almost brushing Mycroft's. "You could be so much more. Those rules are for the insects, the sheep. The stupid, dull masses, those so much less intelligent than you or I," he breathed. He paused, touching Mycroft's face very softly; it was almost childlike, watching him explore his brother's features.

"They are made to protect people Sherlock," Mycroft said gently, almost sadly. His brother had never understood how all of this worked. "To keep them safe."

"No, brother mine. They are made to trap them," Sherlock responded icily. "They are made to make people think stupid, idle thoughts, inside imagined boxes."

"You are brilliant, Sherlock," Mycroft told him, listening to his brother's ranting. "Stop this now, and we will both come away from it, I promise, I'll visit. I'll help however I can…"

"Will you fuck me? Will you love me?" Sherlock said, the last few words sounding constricted in his throat. Mycroft paused, looking at the man.

"Oh, _Sherlock_. I can't…"

Sherlock snarled in vicious anger, fingers digging into Mycroft's chest. "Let's see how you feel in half an hour," he said, tone vitriolic, shuffling down his brother's body, moving his head down to Mycroft's semi-erect member.

"Sherlock. Don't do this. Please, oh good _god_!" Mycroft moaned as his brother took the head of his cock into his mouth, tongue lapping at the slit. Hands busy, he massaged the underside of his length, cupping Mycroft's balls and tugging gently. He glanced up at Mycroft, whose head was straining to capture whatever Sherlock was doing.

A second later he swallowed the man to the base, relaxing his gag reflex and swallowing around him. It was too much; Mycroft moaned as he felt Sherlock's hand pumping his base as his lips moved higher, tongue tracing the underside of his shaft. He was licking at the head once more, tasting the pre-cum that was beginning to spill.

"You taste wonderful brother," Sherlock commented, locking eyes with Mycroft, just as they had done years ago. "So very... sweet."

Mycroft gave a strangled gasp as Sherlock set upon him again, his fists clenching convulsively. It was a fucking good blow job, and it had been nearly a year since Mycroft's last proper encounter. The fact that it was Sherlock too; a forbidden fruit, the ultimate treasure, the focus of so many imaginings. He couldn't hold out much longer, hips begin to stutter upwards, seeking more, seeking release. Sherlock noticed and pulled away, eliciting a hiss from Mycroft.

"Don't worry, you'll cum soon brother, I promise you," Sherlock smirked, seeming a little more satisfied.

He undressed slowly, the tight shirt and trousers falling to the ground and exposing inch by inch more of his marble-like skin. Mycroft marvelled at him, too distracted even to care about the crumpled state of the clearly expensive suit on the floor.

Sherlock moved to a side table, returning with a bottle of lubricant which he popped open, creaking his neck to one side. He ensured he had Mycroft's full attention as he coated three fingers, reaching behind him to press one slick digit against his arse.

Mycroft groaned as he watched his brother prepare himself, slipping a finger in and out of his own body, moaning as he hit his own prostate. It was so beautiful and so very, very wrong. Oh, he had _dreamed_ of this, taking his little brother this way, fucking him against a wall, over his desk. Now his dreams were realised while he was bound and aching in the cellar of some idiot's house.

Sherlock slipped in a second finger, was now riding them with vigour, fast and hard, as Mycroft had imagined he would. His erection was straining, begging for release. A third finger and Mycroft couldn't stop his own hips rutting upwards. Sherlock watched, enjoying Mycroft's frustration.

After what seemed like hours he finished, pulling his fingers out of himself and positioning himself over Mycroft's member. Mycroft gasped as Sherlock lowered his body down, the tip of his erection pressing against Sherlock's hole. Suddenly he was inside, Sherlock pushed down, all the way down, crying out in a delirious mixture of pain and pleasure, until Mycroft was buried balls deep within him.

"Christ, you're tight," Mycroft moaned, as Sherlock took a second to adjust, shifting his hips, making Mycroft moan.

"Well. I never wanted anyone else, did I?" Sherlock replied sarcastically. Mycroft's eyes widened; this was Sherlock's first time? He was so well prepared, so confident, so _entirely unlike_ somebody who was doing this for the first time. "How could anyone ever bloody compare after you!" Sherlock hissed angrily. Mycroft could only nod in agreement as he felt Sherlock move against him.

"Just relax, take it slowly, I do not wish to hurt…" Mycroft began, somehow forgetting that this was Sherlock's game. He had started to ride him, adjusting his own angle. "Slow down Sherlock," Mycroft said, though entirely for Sherlock's benefit. It had been years since he had fucked someone like this, hard and rough. It was what he craved, what he needed.

Sherlock was giving him everything, groaning as Mycroft began to thrust up and into him. They were moving in tandem now, both making more noise than either would care to admit to. Occasionally Mycroft felt the tell-tale shudder when he hit Sherlock's prostate. That was the aim, make it good, make it good for both of them.

Mycroft came first, spilling inside Sherlock's arse. He collapsed against the bed, sweaty and spent, wrists chafed painfully against the cuffs. Sherlock, however, was still going; he pulled himself off Mycroft's softening member and moved upwards, straddling the man's face.

One hand pulled on his short auburn hair, making Mycroft open for him. Mycroft did so with only a shadow of sad reluctance, considering all this could have been, how perfect this encounter could have been.

Sherlock pushed into him with a groan; Mycroft's tongue worked against him, sucking, Sherlock pushing repeatedly, sliding deeper, Mycroft choking around him, brutally fucking his mouth until he came. Mycroft swallowed despite himself, cum dribbling down his chin.

The younger Holmes fell back, exhausted. Mycroft too was panting, unable to believe what had just occurred, his body sated and mind working too much, too fast, too frantically.

After a few moments Sherlock stood, reaching for his clothes.

"Society is for idiots, brother, slaves of convention," Sherlock told him, voice a little hoarse. "I will be keeping you here until you learn that lesson, one way or another."

Mycroft looked up sharply; Sherlock was not intending to release him, then. He would be kept, owned, by his younger brother.

"Oh and one more thing," Sherlock drawled, moving over to Mycroft, kissing him for the first time that day, Mycroft's eyes still vaguely wide with panic. "Jim Moriarty sends his regards."

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Thanks again for reading, as always feedback is adored!


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